If you are my age (in my 50's), you might remember the music at the bottom of this post. It's music we don't hear anymore. But in the past: I always heard it at grandma's.
I remember eating cereal in the morning at grandma's house. The radio would be on, first came the farm report: telling you what hogs and grain were selling for. Then came old hymns and country and western music. The air would smell of coffee and cigarettes.
Cereal at grandma's.
Grandpa was already in his overalls, ready to go out to the big John Deere tractor and disc, or sow seed, or spray.
Grandma would quietly enjoy her coffee as she was getting ready to go check the garden and feed the animals.
Getting a ride on Grandma's John Deere mower. Back then, if you were a farmer in Kansas: you were a John Deere family.
I would swing my legs, as I sat in the tall barstool, that I had to climb up to sit on. Looking at the details around me. Green shag carpet. That same barstool, that you could endlessly spin in. The cereal's texture as the milk ran around it. Sometimes hitting a tooth with the spoon because I was still swinging my feet. In this memory I am happy and excited at the thought of the day's adventure.
I'd casually notice the giant, decorative wooden spoon and fork on the wall. They were next to Grandma's porcelain plate collection. (The collection I still have.) One of cardinals. One of a little boy and girl bringing their dad his pipe and newspaper, while a dog sat next to them with his slippers. One of Gypsum, KS: 100th anniversary.
My mom's parents. My grandfather was amazing. He was a lot like what I think of, when I think of Santa Claus. He was like this all the time. Everything was magical. Everything turned into a story, that he would make up, on the fly.
I didn't understand that these times were limited. I wasn't supposed to. None of us realize, when we're little, what loving someone, much older than you tends to end in. I can't say I really understood what it would be like: until they were all gone. Even as I lost them, I couldn't see how much I would miss each grandparent, until I could only visit my family in my memories.
Anyway, at the time: I was too busy igniting the switch in my new little soul. Burning new experiences into the depths of my being, as I was recording fresh memories, with no past to tangle in with them.
Me and my grandma's collie.
My brother and I would absorb all this: it was timeless. Those moments hung in the air and the clock seemed to suspend it's ticking. It is a forever memory.
Grandpa making up one of the many, magical stories he was always telling. This is my younger brother. Grandpa would tell us "the sandman story", when it was time for bed. He had two PhD's and he had to have used them both: to tell us all of the shapes of the sand, and the colors of the sand, that the sandman was carrying that night. That story ends only after you are asleep. You never get to hear how it finishes!
At the time of these photos my mom's parents were living in an old Victorian home. They were always fixing up a house they'd found. My grandpa moved a lot for his jobs. Granny had a huge rose garden. There was a large library, with all of the books my grandpa had collected. Many were first editions. He also had specimens in jars in formaldehyde that he'd brought home from his science professorships and other things he collected on the way to being the superintendent of schools in rural Kansas. It was a special place of knowledge.
There was also a tree house, that he built for my youngest uncle. It even had a homemade, working phone that was wired over into the house.
When I go back to those memories and relive them, I am almost completely back in that moment of my life. Indistinguishable from the last time, or the first time, I went back to remember it. They are three dimensional memories that I can enjoy, or: turn and look at something else.
I can run up the stairs to the room I slept in. I could play with the set of porcelain dogs that my dad collected, as a kid, in the 50's. I could take a nap as a rain storm blew in. The window cracked open: to let the cool air in. I would feel tiny splashes and mist blow in, as the moisture from the rain outside hit my face. And then: I can be back at the counter in the kitchen, eating that same bowl of cereal. Swinging my feet and feeling nothing but love for the people around me and awe at this new experience called life.
Every time I go back, my soul seems to slosh around and uniquely touch those childhood memories. I feel depth to them that I do not feel with newer memories. I sooth the ache of not being able to hug my grandparents and spend time, watching: sports in the evening with grandpa and grandma's "stories" on daytime television (that she swore were only on for the background noise.) I don't know why that effect is there, but I really enjoy it. The older I get, the more intense these memories are getting. Now I know why "old timers" were always telling stories of their past.
With those long ago memories, there was also music that I no longer hear. So, today I took a trip back to the sounds associated with the memory.
Alan Jackson seems to have the perfect voice for this, although I was probably listening to Merle Haggard or the Gatlin Brothers back then. I prefer this version today.
"In The Garden"
Alan Jackson
https://youtu.be/rwXd3WzjKy8?si=RtoAEebMT5yUUvKr
You come by and visit with your grandma and grandpa, and I'll go get mine. I'm pretty sure they're right around the corner, very close, in my memories...
Crazy Green Thumbs
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